Snowbear

A Mansfield Park and Pride & Prejudice fanfiction

Chapter Thirteen:

So, it had all gone wrong – and how!

Edmund sat in the post-chaise – across from a very sweaty (and probably gouty, for his discomfited countenance seemed to suggest this complaint into the bargain as well) man with a dirty cravat holding a remarkably fat chicken in his lap – and gloomily contemplated this baffling, unfortunate fact, his chin resting in his propped-up hand.

He had not – since an unfortunate incident at Oxford, unexpectedly low marks, somehow lower even than Tom managed on the same exam by some pure freak chance, despite his neglect to actually study for it – felt such an exquisite, complete failure, down into the very marrow of his bones.

Oh, he was utterly wretched, the poor gentleman! In nothing could he count himself the victor even in the smallest degree.

He had lost Miss Crawford, and resigned himself so that, so at least there the sting was no longer so sharp – he scarcely thought of her now his chief object was firmly changed.

But then he had been obliged to leave behind his ordination and Mary Bennet in one big swoop, all in hopes of preventing Fanny from making the greatest mistake of her life, and of stopping Tom from using his curse as an excuse to be a complete ass.

It was all for naught, of course, because Fanny was now his brother's wife, and she was sure to rue it someday, if she did not already.

And to think, she might have married a Crawford and been happy forever!

On top of this nasty blow, Edmund had received not even the felicity of a blessing from cousin or father in regards his second choice: poor Miss Bennet; Fanny had reacted as she had, dismaying him, and his father, when he took him into his confidence, trying to do everything aboveboard and not secretive or sly or spiteful as Tom was doing, was displeased at his 'throwing off' of Miss Crawford.

And Edmund could hardly explain himself without doing the lady who was nonetheless – he thought – still Fanny's intimate friend as well as the sister of the Grants, and must still be near and dear to the family on that account if no other, an injury; he would not wilfully lessen her value in Sir Thomas' eyes by detailing some of the thoughtless remarks she had made regarding his second son's choice in profession, for ten to one she could not really have meant them as earnest as she professed to...

But the indisputable fact of the matter was Miss Crawford had her twenty thousand pounds and Miss Bennet, though the daughter of a gentleman, and so unobjectionable there, would not bring even a quarter of such a goodly amount to Thornton Lacey – and by extension Mansfield – when she came to them as a bride.

Now, to be sure, if Edmund himself had been acquainted with Mary's truest deepest nature and had been able to acquaint his father with it, Sir Thomas would not have wanted her for his son had she forty thousand at her disposal – he had sense and pride enough to see reason when it was properly presented to him. If he could have really known what Mary Crawford was, Sir Thomas would have been very quick to declare Mary Bennet was the daughter he wanted.

Moreover, the timing was inauspicious.

If Edmund had declared his intention to make an offer to Miss Bennet prior to Fanny and Tom's connection, some trifling fuss would have been made, because indeed Sir Thomas had begun to set his heart on Edmund and Miss Crawford becoming a match, almost as much as Edmund himself previously had, but following a conclusive bit of huffing and puffing, he would in all likelihood have clapped his younger son on the back and told him he could marry Miss Bennet if he so liked, and all happiness to him – to them both – if he really wished to take the step, for surely to her credit she did seem the sort who might make a decent spouse for a clergyman with a little careful guidance; but having for all time lost the chance of Tom's marrying for advantage, having seen him married off to an indigent cousin, a second matrimonial blow was not at present to be tolerated.

To Edmund's surprise – and rather to Tom's credit, as he easily could have chosen to be spiteful as a roundabout way of getting revenge – the elder brother had, albeit in a languid, slovenly manner, championed the case of the younger. He was all for his father letting the matter be and having Edmund marry whoever he liked, and who cared if stuck up Miss Crawford wouldn't have him, and he fancied funny, puny, dark-haired Miss Bennet instead now?

So far as Tom had been concerned, Mr. Crawford's persistent behaviour to Fanny made his former friend intolerable, and who the deuce wanted the sister in the family if the brother was set on making himself so disagreeable? Such would make for a dashed unpleasant Christmas dinner or two, at any rate, would it not?

Sir Thomas did not happen to see it that way, of course.

He had wanted – when he realised it was a possibility – Mr. Crawford for Fanny, just as he desired Miss Crawford for Edmund, and he saw Tom's troublemaking as preventing both matches at a go; for – as Edmund would not confess to his father that Miss Crawford had declared she would never dance with, let alone wed, a clergyman – he could see the spoiled efforts of Henry's pursuit of Fanny as being the only probable cause of a rift between the other pair.

He did not venture so far as to absolutely forbid Edmund's proposing marriage to Miss Bennet – he finally ended the quarrel by saying he could do as he liked, he was still to be ordained sooner or later and so would have a livelihood and his own income, thus he was capable of living to please himself, but he mustn't expect the family to be glad for him, to openly support his choice, if he would so readily disoblige them all; he had expected better from him, that was the end of the matter.

Edmund's heart had been torn asunder. To hurt his father, so soon after the wounds inflicted by his brother, was unthinkable, yet he felt himself bound in honour to Miss Bennet – he had nearly promised her, in his way, to expect something from him, and he was sure she had understood.

Why else should she tell him she would make an effort to wait a week longer than originally intended, to linger with the Owens, if she had not understood his meaning, not guessed at his very real feelings for her?

So, while still uncertain what was to be done when he arrived, he concluded he must at least go back to the Owens – try to be near their vicinity – as he'd said he would and see where the matter presently stood.

Perhaps it would come to nothing after all, he thought, more than a little sadly, and he had angered his father prematurely. But he could not break his promise and not at least try to go back and see her, even if he was leaving it a bit too late.

He'd wanted to tell Fanny, despite everything, when she'd asked him so very sweetly, all about his fears and hopes, about his honour and his father's displeasure, but knowing she had reacted even more vehemently about his change in plans than his father had, concluded it was safe only to tell her he had business in Peterborough and go no further in bringing her into his confidence – she viewed him, apparently, as having 'thrown off' Miss Crawford as well.

He wished, almost, he could be angry enough with her still to accuse her, even in his own mind, of breaking Henry Crawford's heart more surely than he could have broken Mary's, but he was much too sorry for her, and what was done was done.

Fanny was never again to be Miss Price but would forevermore be Mrs. Bertram – and one distant day Lady Bertram.

His prayers, sans all previous bitterness, were all pleadings to God that Tom wouldn't do her – their innocent cousin – very much harm as a husband, wouldn't by his selfish ways drain what little natural liveliness she possessed from her, wouldn't dim her light, wouldn't thoughtlessly squelch all which was so admirable in her gentle person.

Arriving at Lessingby, not only was Mary Bennet not to be found there – she had returned home – but his friend Mr. Owen was gone as well; they had travelled by the same carriage, shortly after Owen's ordination, and for a terrible, terrible moment Edmund held his breath, afraid he was to be informed his friend had made Mary an offer in his absence and been accepted.

He had made a Miss Bennet an offer, it turned out, but not Mary – Edmund's lady love was safe from him – no, he'd offered for her pretty younger sister, Catherine – Kitty – by letter, and been – quite unexpectedly – accepted, for his sisters, those eager Miss Owens, had helped him to write the missive so it was apparently quite good, and he was to accompany her back to Hertfordshire.

This was what placed him in the seat across from the chicken-holding man, and Hertfordshire had never seemed so enormously far away from Peterborough as it did at present – he imagined the journey might never end, imagined this ceaseless travel was his own personal purgatory, a punishment for failing to snatch Fanny from Tom's clutches and put her securely into Mr. Crawford's protection before it was too late.

Oh, his father was very much mistaken if he thought any of them – even Fanny, possibly the one with the least strict blame – could, anytime soon, look either of the Crawfords in the eye upon meeting them socially after what had transpired.

Six hours – indeed, near seven, what with the carriage making so many stops along the route – a fairly average amount of detours for the post, to be sure, yet provokingly unwelcome interruptions, each one, all the same – seemed to stretch on like they were six months or even six years.

By the time he was finally at Longbourn, Edmund thought, trying and failing to be less pathetic in his musings, he should be a very old man indeed and might – with his moderate living – perhaps not be such an appealing husband for poor, dear Mary after all.

"We shall, of course... That is, we..." said Mrs. Bennet, turning frantically about this way and that in a circular tizzy to look for her bonnet, only to realise – once she stopped spinning and glanced up – Mary was wordlessly holding it out to her. "Ah. Yes. Thank you, child." She pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes. "Whatever were you doing with my bonnet, though? Oh, things never are where I leave them, not with you forever picking them up and wandering off! Hem. What was I saying?"

"We shall, of course," quoted Mary.

"Yes, I recollect now – we shall, of course," she resumed, her plump fingers worrying, as she spoke, at a small knot in the ribbon of her bonnet, "be taking the carriage to Meryton. Your dear papa, for all he loves to tease us about expense and frippery, and to pertly remind me how, as I've got three daughters married already, I shouldn't fuss as if this were a new arrangement, wouldn't make Kitty walk to buy her own wedding things – it would be too mean." The knot shrank into a hard lump, surely crushing the ribbon. "Oh, mercy!" She thrust the bonnet back at her daughter imploringly. "Mary, dear, you must get this knot out for me; do – be a lamb."

Mary, meaning to be obliging, reached into her apron pocket for her spectacles so she could see what needed to be done in order to untangle the ribbon.

Sucking her teeth, Mrs. Bennet declared her nerves had got the best of her whilst waiting for Mary to 'arrange those silly owlish things upon her nose' and she made a gruff snatch for the bonnet. "I ought to have asked Mrs. Hill, I daresay – she at least is not half blind and would have had it done by now. But I'm always forgetting about your little impairment. Jane or Lydia would've managed it before I finished speaking. Oh, Lydia. My dearest Lydia. She was always so clever with ribbons, while you can make nothing of them, knotted or otherwise. How I wish she was not so far away, how I wish we saw more of her." Noticing Mary's dejected facial expression, she added, "Oh, now, come – don't – don't deprecate yourself on account of my frankness. There's no cause for tears. You know I never mean anything by it." She gave Mary's cheek a little affectionate pat. "You've much within your own merits to draw comfort from, you know. You're better than Lizzy, at least, who would have made it smaller on purpose to vex me – such a tease, that pert miss, all through her girlhood... I hope Mr. Darcy has got the managing of her by now or I fear he never will. Oh" – heaving a great sigh – "I declare Elizabeth is just like your father! So dreadfully sarcastic. I was always half convinced she was being impertinent to me even when she was displaying her finest manners. It's no wonder he always liked her best – two peas in a pod if there ever were any!"

Mary nodded and tried to force a smile while her mother, not seeing the smile did not reach her daughter's eyes, informed her they were expecting a call – perhaps to occur while they were yet in Meryton, more was the pity – from one of Uncle Gardiner's clerks, and she hoped Mary would keep the fire cheerful for his sake and greet him politely if he arrived before their return.

She was hoping, despite the gentleman's getting on a bit in years, he might – being a widower – take a shine to Mary and offer the last of her daughters a secure home.

Mary would, of course, even should the worst occur, not be desolate – Lizzy or Jane, or even Kitty, who was fonder of this sister than she'd ever been before, what with Lydia so rarely around now, would certainly put her up and see to her care; she should not starve on the streets with such sisters as she had, and moreover she was a resourceful, clever little thing who could thrift for herself come dark days, whatever Mr. Bennet might say about her not being as intelligent as Lizzy... Moreover, Mrs. Bennet had grown a bit less vehement in her former belief that Charlotte Collins was eagerly awaiting the day she might turn them all out and make herself mistress of Longbourn than once she'd been. Mr. Collins disliked Lydia, even now she was respectably married, and this made Mrs. Bennet dislike him – and feel rather pleased Lizzy hadn't accepted him after all (Mr. Darcy, for all his faults, would never snub her favourite daughter, his own little sister, or prefer her death to a reconciliation; there was a true gentleman for you) – but she was mollified by how well matters had turned out overall.

All the same, it would be nice to have all her daughters – even plain little Mary – comfortably settled in their very own homes...

Perhaps this was what – when Kitty came bounding into the room, pelisse on but unbuttoned, loose curls bouncing and her handkerchief and ribbons waving as she spun around and around, asking if Mary wouldn't come with them and help her choose shoe roses that matched her wedding clothes, for Mary alone always knew when colours looked too gaudy to sync as they ought; she was loath to do without Mary and never quite realised how little Mary needed her – inspired Mrs. Bennet to shake her head and announce, for her daughter, speaking on her behalf, she certainly did not wish to come and was furthermore needed at home.

And as they departed, singing with glee, Kitty already practising at calling herself Mrs. Owen, and – though she listened for footsteps, just in case – being aware Mr. Bennet would not emerge from his library even for a bite of bread and cheese, now they were gone and he was promised perfect quiet, Mary sank down onto a little stool and played with the end of her hair, twirling it around one finger as she stared down into the orange flames.

It was an effort not to cry.

"Tears are silly, needless things," Mary told herself, and stared harder till the orange and blue and sparks were all one great blur, the way words on the page looked if she tried to read without her spectacles for too long, desperately hoping the fire would burn – melt, evaporate – the tears away before they fell. "Only foolish, dimwit girls cry because the man they wanted didn't come back for them."

Maybe her uncle's clerk wasn't so bad – he'd been good to his first wife, by all accounts, even nursing her himself when she first fell ill, and he'd never been unkind to her, and – to his credit as well – never once acted as if he saw any difference between her and the loveliness of Jane.

But that might be a sign of imbecility as readily as kindness. There was a marked difference between her and Jane – and between her and Lydia and Kitty and Lizzy – and there was no good to be got by way of denying it.

Only, she didn't want the clerk, if she were being honest, though she knew in her heart if he did appear today and asked her, she would probably say yes; it was Mr. Edmund Bertram she wanted.

She liked him for himself as well as his sensible profession – she was in no doubt he would be ordained soon, even if he'd missed his first chance.

And she really had hoped he'd come back to Lessingby before she left it.

Except he hadn't, and as they weren't engaged and it wouldn't be remotely proper – not on either end, she knew – she could expect no letters from him to explain his plans further.

She ought to have known.

He was much too handsome for her, for all his good sense and solemnity. It was that Ward and Bertram combination – the whole family was much too pretty and fair; Mary blamed Lady Bertram especially for that, her features being almost as good as Jane's. She might have stood a chance with Edmund if he'd inherited a few more of the baronet's sharper features instead of his mother's softer, appealing ones. Lydia wouldn't have stood up with him for all the gold and diamonds in Africa, but he had the sort of beauty any of her other sisters would have been drawn to and had the power, in turn, to draw him in as well – particularly Lizzy.

If Elizabeth were not already married, she would have got him; Mary was certain of it.

A butterknife had been left on a discarded tray upon the stool opposite hers. She reached for it and studied her reflection in the glinting silver.

No, reflections did not lie, she simply wasn't worth Mr. Bertram's taking the trouble. She must give up any hope of his contacting her again.

Setting the knife down again and hugging herself, she sighed. There had been a few times at Lessingby she really thought he liked her, in spite of everything. In an odd way, she found she even envied that poor, quiet cousin of his everybody had tried to bully into acting what felt like so long ago; it was obvious Edmund looked out for her at least, that she would always, to some extent, have him in her life. Whereas Mary might well never see him again. Bingley wasn't even close with him – it was the heir, Tom Bertram, he was friends with. What, aside from perhaps Kitty's upcoming marriage, would ever be likely to throw them in each other's way again?

As she sat, a few cinders leaping from the fireplace and clinging to the side of her face, Mary found herself remembering a ridiculous Italian story – the sort of lurid, pointless tale which proclaims to have a set moral but is murky about displaying it – Lizzy and Jane had mooned over years ago when they were learning to read.

In spite of herself, she whispered, glad no one was home to hear her speaking so foolishly, "I'm a more than bit like Basile's own ninny, Zezolla, now, I suppose – the feast is over and here I sit."

Sometime later, when Mary had almost let herself neglect the fire and was frantically stoking it so Mrs. Bennet and Kitty wouldn't know she'd slacked off if they came home early, she heard someone at the kitchen door.

Mrs. Hill hadn't announced anybody's arrival at the front door to forewarn her – how had the clerk gotten past without being seen?

Mary quickly wiped her face with a cloth, to get the soot off, and turned to greet...

To greet...

"Oh!" she cried, because it was not Uncle Gardiner's clerk at all!

"Miss Bennet," said Edmund Bertram, looking damp and flushed.

Outside – and more was the good fortune Kitty had got the carriage, because her walk was sure to have been spoiled – a cold sleet had begun some twenty minutes before and the gathered ice on Edmund's coat sleeves was melting and dripping, and finally pooling, onto the kitchen floor.

Mary Bennet's life was so decidedly unromantic the first lover to seek her out should appear, not covered in snow or soft petals fallen loose from some spring tree newly in flower but covered in icy water and rather a good deal of mud.

Even Fanny Price – as pragmatic and platonic as Tom's proposal had been – had got snow on her wedding day.

But Mary wouldn't have cared about that, if she'd been the sort to even think of it, because this was enough – she had got her first and only miracle and it did not matter in the least if Mr. Bertram were dripping onto the floor or if he smelled, inexplicably, like a mouldy chicken coop.

"You're unwell," he stated, seeing her sway slightly and then right herself. "Forgive me."

"No – you surprised me, that's all – I thought you were my uncle's clerk."

He held out a hand. "Miss Bennet – Mary – before I begin, before I declare my intentions, I feel honour-bound to inform you I have not exactly gotten my family's unreserved blessing, matters being..." He bit his lower lip, then released it. "...being a bit tumultuous at Mansfield at the moment..."

She nodded. "Yes, I see, but please go on with what you came to say – I should very much like to know the purpose of your visit, sir."

And an offer was made, despite them both agreeing they would be practical if matters did not at once go their own way, Mary's sombre, restrained acceptance not once betraying the delight she actually felt. Edmund thought she acted just as she ought and was sure, more than ever, once his father realised what a practical, good creature Miss Bennet was he'd soon forget about Miss Crawford and her twenty thousand pounds as thoroughly as he himself had.

Restraint was not a word which could be applied to Mary's mother and sister, however, who happened to come bursting in (again, unimpeded by Mrs. Hill – where on earth was that woman – what could she be doing?) with their arms full of boxes from their shopping excursion just as Edmund was bending down to kiss Mary chastely upon the brow and taking her hand in his, speaking in a low, grateful tone.

Kitty shrieked and – dropping her boxes – pointed, bouncing up and down. "Mary – ahh – but he's so handsome! It is Mr. Owen's friend, Mr. Bertram, is it not?"

Edmund tipped his hat – which he had forgotten to remove and thus remained, partly askew, on his head – to her and affirmed his identity, only causing her to squeal all the louder and clap her hands.

Mrs. Bennet was even worse. Mary was no stranger to embarrassment and was less easily humiliated than either of her elder sisters ever were, indeed, she herself had been the cause of many of their little mortifications, but even she had to wince as her mother strongarmed Edmund into a tight embrace, almost crushing him to her breasts, and brokenly thanked him over and over again for wanting to marry her daughter.

"You wonderful, wonderful man!" She was swaying back and forth, tightening her grasp as she rocked him. "You chose the cleverest of my girls – oh, I knew she could not be so well-read and have strained her eyes for nothing."

"He needs to be able to breathe, Mama!" cried Kitty, when scarlet-faced Mary could not – just then – find voice enough to do so.

So Mrs. Bennet finally released him – though, if he'd been his brother, a would-be baronet, she probably would have smothered him entirely. Still, she was all aglow with the fact that the intimate friend of Kitty's clergyman husband would do very nicely for Mary – very nicely, indeed.

She was so exceedingly pleased with him she would make him sit for tea with herself and two remaining girls – and insist upon his consuming an inordinate amount of cake she all but shoved directly into his mouth whenever he opened it to protest how rarely he ate an excess of anything sweet, how it disagreed with his stomach more often than not – before letting him go into Mr. Bennet's private study within the library to ask his permission for Mary.

If Mary was horrified by her mother, her horror was overtaken – overridden wholly – by her felicity at having Edmund sitting so near herself and being so agreeable, by the mere thought he really wanted to marry her and had made such an effort to come and prove this, and you couldn't tell it from her countenance.

Without Jane or Lizzy living at home and being at leisure to try and keep the liveliness of Kitty and Mrs. Bennet at bay, there was no help for them giggling and listening at the library door, while Mary – gone a little pale – stood a short way off, wringing her hands and blinking haplessly.

Mr. Bennet, with his rational glance as he set aside his book, was more what Edmund expected in coming here. And truly, it was a relief of sorts to have to come up against this manner of cool gentleman, especially after the overindulgence and literal attempts at near-suffocation by the mother of his intended, but he could not fully make out his character.

He thought little enough of Mr. Bennet as a father in practice – it was clear he neglected his daughters' educations monstrously, and one wondered if he would have done the same for a son or if it was a masculine prejudice – yet in principle the mere fact he was Mary's father made him deserving of respect and provided Edmund with a wish to know him better.

But who was this white-haired, heavy-set, sardonic man sitting in his chair by the light motes near the window? And what did he make of all this fuss and bother, clearly ejaculated loudly enough for him to have heard – why, the servants all the way at Lucas Lodge probably heard, for pity's sake! – though for some reason he'd never investigated until Mrs. Bennet finally let the young man come in to see him.

"So." He regarded Edmund, his eyes glancing up and down, taking him in at face value. "You wish to wed Mary."

"I do, sir."

"Might I inquire as to why?"

Edmund sucked in a breath and rolled back his shoulders. He was equal to this. "I believe myself to be in love with her, since knowing her better at Lessingby – and have resolved that she would make a sensible, useful wife who would not scoff at my profession – and if I'm not mistaken, she loves me just as well as I do her."

"And I take it," said Mr. Bennet, tilting his head and sinking further down in his seat, "you believe this great love affair of yours reason enough to traipse in and drip large quantities of mud all across the length of my library?"

"I can pay for the rug if it's that important to you," said Edmund, nearly speaking through his teeth.

"Oh, never mind it, never mind it. I wasn't serious." Mr. Bennet waved that off, giving him a smile, almost amiable. "Besides, if you've come all this way for our poor Mary – she is a good girl, though I wouldn't believe my wife when she tells you her daughter is clever – I shan't overextend myself and vex you too greatly, but I must know a bit more about your profession and your family situation, you understand, before I give my consent."

Here Edmund, honest to a fault, had to confess there was trouble at home. Some fortune was lost recently, trouble in Antigua, and he wouldn't receive much of it regardless, being only a second son; there was no hope of the Mansfield living at present, the Grants would keep that some long while yet, so he and Mary would have to be content with Thornton Lacey.

"But the parsonage is quite good," Edmund felt the need to interject. "Once the farmyard is moved – it is, I'm afraid, something of an eyesore – I think the house shall be very comfortable and have the air of a gentleman's residence."

This pleased Mr. Bennet well, except in one respect. Thornton Lacey was not technically Edmund's yet, even if it were being held for him; after all, he had not been ordained alongside Mr. Owen, had he?

Edmund's shoulders drooped involuntarily. He could not lie and say otherwise. Further, he felt it his duty to confess to the father as he had to the daughter Sir Thomas did not, at present, take all the pleasure he doubtless later would in the notion of the match.

He hesitated, then finally added, too, though he could hardly understand it, his elder brother's wife had taken a strange prejudice against Mary. He hastened to conclude with, "But my little cousin Fanny has the largest heart I have ever known, therefore I can vouch she will soon be over any pique and will rally and will be no bad company for Mary then. I think she was only a trifle warm about the prospect because she had expected me to offer for a friend of hers instead."

He wondered, even marvelled, he was so open in saying all this, all the more to a man he couldn't like, but Mr. Bennet was so fond of pausing and it made him nervous, as if this gentleman were watching him from some pew and waiting for him to begin a sermon and he must fill the absence of noise or else disgrace himself.

"I think you are a very agreeable young man, in your way, and I believe you will suit Mary – you've more in common with her than the rest of us." Here, Mr. Bennet glanced downward a moment. "But I cannot like the idea of your not yet having achieved your profession and your father – if not opposed – also not fond of the match. Perhaps you had better go away a year, sort matters at home and secure your position, before I give my own consent."

This was too much for Mrs. Bennet – she flung the door open, practically wailing that Mr. Bennet was too cruel to her poor, poor nerves. Didn't he know this was a honey-fall for their own little Mary? How could he send such a beautiful man away?

"Give the gentleman a year to dither, and ten to one he'll be sure of finding some other wife nearer Northampton before he can make it back to Hertfordshire and offer all over again for Mary!" Tears rolled down her cheeks and she drew a handkerchief to her face. "Oh, you don't understand anything!"

Kitty began sobbing, too, crying all about how she'd begun to dream up a double wedding and now it was to be spoiled because he wouldn't let Owen's handsome friend have Mary.

"I suppose," said Mr. Bennet, giving a guttural chuckle, eyes sparkling as they fixed upon his agitated wife, "you would rather I consent to Mr. Bertram's slinging Mary over his shoulder and taking her home with him tonight than show any kind of sense in the matter."

Glancing up from Kitty's collar, where she had buried her face after her last exclamation, cuddling the weeping girl to her, she gasped, "Why, Mr. Bennet, how can you? You must know I mean for him to stay with us all week as a guest so I can show him to Lady Lucas. He's ever so much nicer to look at than Mr. Collins. Much better than what her Charlotte got. If you were to put Mr. Bertram in a red coat, why, he'd almost look as well as an officer!" Kitty nodded her agreement to this statement, pouting. "He'll not go home tonight, not if you have any sympathy for how your wife appears to her neighbours."

Even when Mr. Bennet – simply desiring quiet at this point – gave into his wife's demands, after a little more needling at her nerves just for the fun of it, Edmund wasn't keen on doing anything underhandedly. He asked leave to write to his father, now he had Mary's consent and that of her parents, and to ask him to bless the union, in spite of his previous apprehensions, before it should go forward.

This endeared him to Mr. Bennet, who saw he had a good head on his shoulders for one so allegedly lovesick and was forced to acknowledge – at least to himself – he was not half so rational when he had been the same age and married his own wife.

A year would not be required, let Edmund have his profession whenever it suited him best and still engage himself to Mary if that was really what he would prefer.

"But mind" – and he looked sidelong at Kitty, shaking his head – "you don't plan your double wedding any further until we hear some word back from Sir Thomas. I would not have it go as far as that – not yet."

Upon receiving the letter, his temper not as warm as it had been just after Tom's Wedding Breakfast, Sir Thomas yielded and wrote back a favourable – if still slightly grudging – reply, welcoming Mary Bennet into the family.

And so, it looked as if Kitty was going to have her double wedding after all. She was starry-eyed as she dragged Mary by the wrist into shops, pleading for her to look at the various bolts of material and give an opinion on them which did not sound as if she'd recited it out of a book of proverbs.

Mr. Bennet only sighed and said, "Well, we have done at last – if any other young men come to Longbourn looking for a wife, I shall tell them they're too late, and we haven't so much as one single daughter left to give them." To his wife, he added, "I trust, my dear, you will no longer repeatedly pester me to go visiting any young man who moves into the neighbourhood?"

Mrs. Bennet only sniffed and leaned her head on his shoulder, murmuring how happy she was – good husbands for all five daughters.

"I don't care too much for Kitty's Mr. Owen on closer acquaintance," Mr. Bennet told her, only half serious. "He never talks for himself when spoken to – he only nods and agrees with the last thing you or Kitty said."

"Why, that's on account of he's a gentleman!" argued Mrs. Bennet, lifting her head and frowning. "He's good as gold in my eyes – the dear lad."

"Bertram is a good lad," conceded Mr. Bennet, "if only he would not eat so much cake and leave a crumb behind now and again for the rest of us – the gentleman has a capricious appetite for sweet things."

Mrs. Bennet cocked her head and pursed her lips. "What's that mean, capricious?"

"Have you all heard the news?" Tom announced upon entering the drawing-room at the onset of evening to find Fanny reading to his mother from The Idler (one of Fanny's great favourites, which she would not have been permitted to read aloud if Mrs. Norris were sitting with them, if she were not detained at the White House, since their aunt had a prejudice toward Johnson for no more tangible reason than she knew her niece liked his work). "Ah, I can see from your faces you have not." He patted Fanny's shoulder rather harder than she liked before striding to the fire and rubbing his hands together over it. His injury was obviously not plaguing him so painfully, even if it was a long way yet from being properly healed – one couldn't tell he was injured, from how he moved, until he removed his cloak (the arms of his usual jacket were too tight for comfort at present) with a wince as well as a flourish, and the presence of bulky bandaging was then obvious from the bunching up of his shirt near the sleeve. "Well, I've just now run into my father on the way in, and would you believe he's given his consent and Edmund and Mary are to be joined together in wedded bliss."

The book fell from Fanny's hands and landed on the rug with a thump. She gazed numbly at the fire, at Tom's legs stationed before it. "She has accepted him." Her heart, rather than speed up, seemed to slow – it would run slower, she imagined, before it broke entirely.

Tom didn't notice the pain in Fanny's voice or the pinched expression forming on her face. "Yes," said he, merry and bright. "It seems true love has won the day – good for them." He smiled at her with a cousin's affection. "The rest of us do perfectly well without the encumbrance, if you ask me."

"The next time Pug has a litter," remarked Lady Bertram, lifting her arms above her head and yawning indolently, "Edmund's wife shall have a puppy – which I daresay is welcome enough for the lady; it's more than I did for Maria."

What a night Fanny suffered through!

She longed so for her own narrow bed in her old attic room, too far away from anybody who mattered for her sobs as she cried herself to sleep to be overheard.

Of course, Tom was right there, in the same bed with her, his own darkness-enclosed luxurious one, and – for all her best efforts – became gradually aware of her weeping.

"I say, Fanny! All this sniffing! The bed will be mildewed if you keep at it long" – this was his idea of a joke, of trying to make light of tears he could not understand. "Whatever is the matter?"

"A headache," she croaked, turning and burying her hot face – not that he could have seen it anyway. "I shall be better presently. I'm sorry to have disturbed you." This was not a lie – her head did hurt her – but she still felt guilt over being deliberately misleading.

"Poor mouse." Tom was half boredom, half sympathy – and very real sympathy, for all it was only half, to his credit. "Don't you take anything for it? Some kind of vinegar or raspberry concoction? I can ring the bell for Smith to bring it to you. Would do the dashed lazy servant good to get off his backside once in a while, I daresay. He's never here when I need him."

"No, no, I thank you, but I do not want anything just now."

And Tom, not fully thinking it through, inched nearer to where she was, shifting himself on the mattress, and tried to offer some small physical signs of comfort – his nature, his first instinct, was to be tactile – before it occurred to him Fanny was rather too old – grown too womanly – to be petted and coddled by a gentleman – whatever their odd relationship to each other was, now they were simultaneously man and wife and platonic bedfellows at the same time – in quite the manner he had in mind.

He sighed, kissed her as dispassionately as a brother, wished her well come the morning, and curled back into his former position.

If Fanny thought anything of Tom's odd way of reaching for her and then pulling back, almost as if he were suddenly afraid to touch her in the dark, it wasn't much – her mind was too full of Edmund and Miss Crawford.

She was sorry for all involved.

It was perfectly fine for Tom to say true love had won the day – to be ignorantly glad for the complete ruination of his brother. He, who had never appreciated the beautiful mind Edmund had, who had regularly chafed at the display of his morality rather than admired or valued it. Fanny believed more firmly than ever Mary would prevent Edmund's becoming a clergyman, change him into the most miserable, unhappy being in the world. She never dared to think of Edmund for herself in any serious way, outside of impossible dreams, and as a married woman, safe from Mr. Crawford, she was barred from her first inclination as well, even if the world should turn on its axis and he might notice her – but must he marry the woman who, for all her beauty and charm, would fail to bring out his best nature?

She was sorry, too, for herself, sorry she had ever admitted she thought Miss Crawford lovely or pleasant company when she knew – too late – she would be far happier never to have to see her again.

Yet she must welcome her at Mansfield (surely, if Edmund were not ordained, they would live here, too) as both cousin and sister.

And be thrown into company with Mr. Crawford, who doubtless saw himself as a jilted man despite all she had done to assure him she'd never encouraged his suit.

Safe from being married to Henry she might be, secured in being Mrs. Bertram, but she was not safe from his sharp scrutiny and possible bitterness if he were always to be about the house visiting his sister.

Why did any of this have to happen?

All night, tossing and turning and trying – at the same time – to not let Tom come to any awareness of just how restless she really was, she lamented everything which had gone wrong and was – until the wee hours of the morning when rational thought made her sensible again – blaming everyone.

Edmund was blind; the Crawfords were insufferable and spoiled and for all the sake of a better world wouldn't comprehend of just once not having what they wanted when they wanted it; and Tom was selfish and had, in his way, set all this into motion by his gambling away the living for his brother and bring the Grants and Crawfords into the neighbourhood.

Finally, Fanny rolled over and squinted with sore, red-rimmed eyes into the dark.

Somewhere in that direction was her husband, and her purpose in life, the only one left to her as all the joy and hope was leeched from it, was to free him of his curse.

I forgive you, Tom, truly.

She promised God she would be good again, once she got the bitterness out in a flood of tears she could blame on her head hurting, and not resent what had come about by her own choices as well as those of others.

Someday this must all be behind her – someday she'd be in her cottage with William – no Crawfords or Bertrams would follow her there – and everything would be better.

A/N: Reviews welcome, replies may be delayed.